


That Wilderness So Savage

by Winter_of_our_Discontent



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Academia is murder, First Meetings, Grad Student Will, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Professor Hannibal, Smitten Hannibal Lecter, Will is NOT Hannibal's student, academic au, academic conference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-11 17:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13529040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent
Summary: The professor— Will would bet money he was tenured faculty somewhere— glanced down at Will’s badge, hanging from his neck like a millstone on a lanyard. “Doctor Graham.”“Just Will. I’m, ah, I’m actually just about to defend.”“Hannibal Lecter. Please, call me Hannibal.”Will risked a glance at the man’s eyes as they shook hands. They were deep, and in the fluorescent lighting looked almost burgundy. He looked away before he could see any further.“And what do you study, Will?”“Death,” Will said.





	1. Friday

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [不驯的荒野](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15699744) by [spacemonkey42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey42/pseuds/spacemonkey42)



Willow, Willow, which of these ridiculously tiny room plaques said Willow… there it was, and just in time. Will slid into the tiny, crowded room and squeezed awkwardly past several strangers to claim the last empty chair halfway down one of the back rows. 

Flushed with victory, or as close to it as he was likely to get, it took him a minute of listening to the first speaker drone on about media depictions of mental illness to realise he was in the wrong room. He grimaced. It was only day two of the conference and he already felt as though he was drowning, caught in an undertow of people’s theories and emotions and egos.

Will looked around, but in the cramped room there was no way to exit without pushing past at least half a dozen people, interrupting the first speaker and making an awkward scene. He gave in and settled back into the hard chair, wished yet again that he was anywhere but here, and did his best to picture himself fly fishing in a quiet stream.

Engrossed as he was in casting his imaginary line, Will found himself startling slightly at the polite applause that signalled the end of the session.

“I sense you were not absorbed by the papers,” the man sitting next to him observed, his lightly accented voice polite but with a hint of amusement.

Will twisted slightly to face his neighbor, perfectly attired in a three piece suit in a way that put Will’s own tie and sport coat to shame. “Uh, no,” he admitted. “I’m… afraid I ended up in the wrong room? I thought this was where the panel on public memorials was.”

“I suspect you were looking for Willow B, next door. This is Willow A, a simple enough mistake to make.”

Will flushed and looked away. “Probably, yeah.”

“And yet you stayed through an hour and a half of a panel you had no interest in.”

“It always seems rude to leave once they’ve started talking.”

“A courteous fellow. How refreshing.” The professor— Will would bet money he was tenured faculty somewhere— glanced down at Will’s badge, hanging from his neck like a millstone on a lanyard. “Doctor Graham.”

“Just Will. I’m, ah, I’m actually just about to defend.”

“Hannibal Lecter. Please, call me Hannibal.”

Will risked a glance at the man’s eyes as they shook hands. They were deep, and in the fluorescent lighting looked almost burgundy. He looked away before he could see any further.

“And what do you study, Will?”

“Death,” Will said. He could have tried to soften it, but he’d found through experience it was easier to just get it over with and watch his conversational partner rapidly excuse themselves from the conversation. Occasionally Will amused himself by rating the relative awkwardness of their departure, with the current record holder the one who’d stood up from their table so quickly that she’d spilled her coffee all over Will. She’d then blurted something about getting him napkins and had never come back.

The date hadn’t been going that well anyway, once he’d found out she didn’t like dogs.

“Non mortem timemus, sed cogitationem mortis,” Dr Lecter said, the Latin quotation rolling comfortably off his tongue. “A fascinating subject. Though a very broad, it seems trite to say a universal, one. May I ask if you approach it from a religious, cultural, or biological sense?”

“My Latin’s not exactly fluent, but I caught that you said something about death?” Will replied. “To answer your question, I generally focus on death rituals and material culture.” He waited for the inevitable follow up questions: “Why death? Don’t you find the topic depressing? Did you have a traumatic experience as a kid or something?”

Dr Lecter once again surprised him. “‘We do not fear death, but the thought of death.’ Seneca,” he said, smiling a small, private smile as though he was sharing a secret with Will. “Though perhaps Dante would be more appropriate.”

“I’m not sure what circle conferences take place in,” Will said. “Pride, maybe.”

The room was beginning to clear out, participants eager to scurry to the next panel or, just as likely, to empty their bladders after overindulging in the mediocre but abundant conference coffee. Will and Dr Lecter both rose to their feet, inching awkwardly across the row of chairs and towards the door.

“Then perhaps I can be your Virgil and guide you safely through. Do you have plans for dinner this evening?”

“No, I, uh, haven’t had a chance,” Will replied. “Panels all day.” He was actually running entirely on free coffee and a few of the tiny, dreadful hard candies that the hotel had scattered around in bowls. His stomach gurgled at the reminder that he’d also missed breakfast this morning to attend an 8AM session, and Will risked a quick glance up at Dr. Lecter’s face in the hope that he hadn’t heard it.

By the slight twitch of his thin lips, he had.

Dr Lecter leaned towards him to add, sotto voce, “In a few moments Frederick Chilton will cease his self-promotion and notice me. He will then ask me to what I know will prove to be a truly tedious meal. Saving me would be an act of altruism.”

He had scarcely finished speaking before Will heard a “Hannibal!” issue from the front of the room. They both turned to look as one of the speakers, a shorter man with a neatly trimmed dark beard, made his way towards them. “I thought I saw you hiding in the back. You should have taken a front row seat.”

“I didn’t want to distract, Frederick,” Dr Lecter replied. 

“Nonsense, Hannibal, it’s always a pleasure to chat with other experts at these sorts of things. In fact, I was hoping you and I could head out for dinner and drinks, I wanted to bounce some ideas for a new book off of you.”

“I’m afraid you’ve caught us just as Will and I were heading out.”

The man turned towards Will as though he’d only just noticed him. “Professor Frederick Chilton,” he announced, holding out a hand. “University of Chicago.” 

Will shook it. “Will Graham,” he said, as though they weren’t all at this very moment wearing badges displaying their names and institutional affiliations or lack thereof in a setting in which everyone could be presumed to have mastered basic literacy and okay maybe it was time for him to take a break from the conference.

Oblivious or simply indifferent to Will’s inner crisis, Chilton turned back to Lecter. “Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind just tagging along with us, Hannibal, he might learn something.”

“I have no doubts on that score, Frederick,” Lecter replied with a smoothness that Will was already learning to associate with him, “but as part of the conference mentorship program I’d hate to be remiss in my duties to my mentee. I’m sure there will be other opportunities for us to talk while we’re both in attendance.”

Will felt a gentle hand on his back, guiding him past Chilton and out of the room. The touch was enough to shake him out of himself, and he pulled away from it as they reached the elevators. 

By the time he felt more himself, they had emerged onto the street outside of the conference hotel. “Where exactly are we going?” 

“To dinner, as I told Frederick. Are you familiar with Seattle?” 

Will shook his head. “This is my first time here.” And all he’d seen of it so far was SeaTac, the light rail from SeaTac to the conference hotel, and the conference hotel. “And you don’t have to actually have dinner with me, now that you’ve gotten Professor Chilton off your back.”

“Nonsense, why wouldn’t I spend my evening getting to know a colleague?”

“Networking?” Will asked, not bothering to disguise his skepticism. 

“Precisely,” Lecter replied, confidently steering them down one street and then another. “I’ve found a small seafood place nearby to which I would not be embarrassed to take you. Not, if I may be permitted a small boast, quite as good as my own cooking, but that is one of the inevitable compromises one makes while traveling.”

The ‘small seafood place’ looked fancy enough that Will was glad he was still in his conference outfit, wearing his second-best tie. He was saving his best tie for his paper tomorrow morning.

Will glanced at the menu and tried not to wince at the prices. They weren’t objectively awful, they were just… more than he’d budgeted for meals today. Of course, that had been before he’d realised the conference was only going to supply occasional coffee and those hard candies.

His stomach growled again at the reminder. 

Maybe he could just get the chowder.

“Of course as I was the one to invite you and suggest the location, you must allow me to pay,” Lecter said, because apparently he could also read minds.

“That goes a bit beyond networking, Dr Lecter.”

“Does it?” Lecter asked, forcing Will to look up. “You’ve given me a polite escape from an awkward social situation and provided me with a much more congenial dining companion. I would say I’m further in your debt.”

Will let out a near silent huff at the thought of himself as a pleasant dinner companion. “You’ll have to decide by the end of the evening if Chilton was really that bad.”

“I look forward to it,” Lecter said, smiling. 

The waitress came over to their table, and Lecter ordered the special, some kind of salmon cooked in paper. Will ordered the same.

The waitress came back with the bottle of white wine that Lecter had ordered, and Will watched silently as they engaged in some sort of weird ritual around the wine bottle that involved him inspecting the label and sniffing the wine, and then she presented them with two glasses.

“Sorry, I’m just having water,” Will said, determined to retain some control over his evening.

“In case you change your mind,” the waitress said, leaving the glass on the table and winking at him. 

“So tell me, Will, is this your first conference?”

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been to some of the regional ones, but this is my first time at the national. It’s very…” Will cast around for appropriate adjectives before settling on “...big. But I’m ABD and Jack’s been pushing me to increase my visibility before I go on the market, so here I am.” 

“Jack?”

“My advisor, Jack Crawford.”

“A good scholar. I’m sure he just wants what’s best for you.”

“Sometimes I feel like what he thinks is best for me and what I think is best for me are not the same thing. But I’m not… I’m lucky to have him as an advisor. So what about you? Pop culture doesn’t exactly seem like your scene, Dr Lecter.”

“Please, call me Hannibal,” Dr Lecter said. Before Will could think of a polite way to say no, or even an impolite one, the waitress arrived bearing their dinner. 

Over the light clinking of their cutlery Hannibal continued, “What we think of as high or refined culture is often simply the popular culture of another era, rendered rare and precious to modern eyes by the simple passage of time.”

Will took a bite. It wasn’t the fish he was used to, but it was excellent salmon, the flesh flaky and moist, surrounded by vegetables he half recognised. “Today’s Kardashians are tomorrow’s King Lear?”

Hannibal smiled in a way that had him feeling like an undergrad who’d just answered a question correctly in lecture. “Precisely.”

“At least you don’t do rhetoric.”

There was an infinitesimal pause. Probably someone who wasn’t Will might not even have noticed it, but Will always noticed more than he meant to. 

“…you do rhetoric, don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. I hope this won’t adversely affect your opinion of me.”

Will stared down at his plate. “We’ve only met once, I don’t really have much of an opinion of you to worry about.” He glanced back up to see the slight upward tilt of Hannibal’s mouth.

“Something I will have to strive towards, then.” 

Will didn’t know how to respond to that, so they just sat in silence as they ate. It was a surprisingly comfortable silence, settling placidly around them like morning fog on a lake.

“Will you be presenting at the conference?” Hannibal asked.

“Tomorrow morning, eight am. Should be popular.”

“On?”

“It’s a chapter from my thesis. Interviews with people that collect… it’s, uh, it’s usually called ‘murderabilia.’ Collecting things dealing with murders or violent crimes.”

“Is that a common practice?”

“More than you’d think,” Will admitted. “They’re, uh, they’re a surprisingly friendly group. Most of them wouldn’t hurt a fly. I think they’re happy to have someone to show their collections off to, someone to try and understand without pathologizing them. One of my interviewees-- I changed some of their names for privacy, but in the study he’s called Franklin-- said he’s ‘just trying to touch greatness.’” 

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Are you trying to touch greatness?”

“If I were, it wouldn’t be through bad paintings of clowns.”

Hannibal’s lip twitched upward just slightly, a gesture that in him seemed akin to a belly laugh from someone else. “And after all, what is academia but an attempt to stand on the shoulders of giants?”

“Looks to me more like a dogfight over table scraps.”

“Impolitic but not inaccurate. Please, tell me more about your dissertation.”

Will eyed him warily. “Are you sure? Most people don’t get past my research topic, and we’re eating.”

“Your work sounds intriguing and I assure you I have a very strong stomach.”

Will shoved another forkful of fish into his mouth and shrugged a clear ‘suit yourself’ before swallowing. “So... my broader research is on death. Rituals, objects, burial practices… death is ubiquitous, even if our current culture likes to pretend they can yoga-and-smoothie their way to immortality.” He looked over at Lecter to see how he was taking it. The doctor was staring thoughtfully at him, and, well, it was nice to have someone actually interested in the work he’d put dedicated his life to. “My dissertation…It’s on true crime, but it really focuses on the role of the murderer in pop culture, especially following the serial killer boom of the eighties. Jack actually wanted me to call it ‘The Lure of Evil Minds,’” he grimaced, remembering the fight they’d had over it. “Like the FBI museum. I told him it was hammy.” Jack had had to step in to get the dissertation approved by the department in the first place, a fact he was more than a little fond of reminding Will.

“Serial killer boom?” Hannibal asked, seemingly amused by the term.

“Well, there have always been multiple murderers… the Werewolf of Bedburg, Elizabeth Bathory, H.H. Holmes… but the specific term and idea of a serial killer dates from the eighties, prior to that they were just called ‘mass killers.’”

“Go on.”

“Well, there’s murderabilia, murder tourism, endless true crime specials, and then there’s the rise in fiction of the serial killer-as-character, who is somehow always hyper-intelligent and urbane, killing in some ridiculous way as part of a complicated, I don’t know, ritual of some kind, instead of being, say, a trucker of below average intelligence who strangles sex workers along his highway route.”

“Surely there are serial killers of some note?”

“I mean… some have certainly been of high intelligence and charisma, like Ted Bundy, or had interesting practices, like Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the Martha Stewart of murderers… I’m sorry, that was tasteless.” 

“Black humour is a common and necessary coping mechanism for those who regularly engage with death.”

“Yeah, I’m a blast at parties. My dissertation deals less with the murderers themselves and primarily looks at how ideas of them are used by the broader culture. Honestly, most serial killers aren’t really that interesting. ”

Hannibal leaned forward half an inch. “What about the Muralist, who tried to create art that would outlive him and then incorporated himself into the art? Or the Baltimore Ripper.”

“God, the Ripper,” Will groaned. “There’s not as much on him because he’s contemporary and hasn’t been caught yet so the police are holding back most of the details and all of the evidence, but some of the collectors would give their firstborn for a piece of his art. Franklyn practically swooned at the idea of getting his hands on the bible the Ripper once left a severed tongue in.”

“Art?” Hannibal asked. If he were a dog Will would have sworn his ears had just perked up.

“I mean… there’s a line from the guy who basically started the field of criminal psychology, John Douglass… something like, ‘If you want to understand Picasso, you look at his paintings. If you want to understand an artist, look at their art.’ For a serial killer, that’s the crime itself, not… knotwork scorpions.”

“Do you think of it as art?”

“I mean if artists were serial killers, the Ripper’s work would fall somewhere between Caravaggio and Francis Bacon. It’s… it’s haunting, I don’t know. Jack had me cut out a whole section on him because it wasn’t relevant to the rest of the thesis.”

“Perhaps you will find another venue for your thoughts on the Ripper.”

Will snorted. “No, I’m done with serial killers after this. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for Jack’s pushing I’d probably have changed my topic months ago. Death is peaceful. This… has not been. I’m tired of trying to go to sleep at night and seeing crime scenes re-enacted behind my eyelids.”

“Imagination can be both a gift and a curse.” Hannibal, eyes glittering slightly, looked as though he were about to say more when the server appeared to take their dessert orders, breaking both eye contact and the weird frisson that had come over Will.

“I never would have pictured you as a serial killer groupie, Dr Lecter.”

Hannibal’s upper lip stiffened further. “I am not; I merely take pains to be aware of the world around me.”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” Will said, teasingly.

“Of that I have no doubt.”


	2. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will presents his paper. Hannibal presents his compliments.

When the alarm went off at six thirty in the morning, it took most of his willpower to not just throw his phone across the room. He shouldn’t have stayed out so late last night with Dr Lecter --- with Hannibal--- but dinner had led to dessert had led to after dinner coffee which meant when he finally did get to bed, his body was veering between the exhaustion of an introvert required to be spend the last few days being social and the jitteriness of having had caffeine far too late in the evening.

Will had the whole hotel room to himself-- even if he’d found any other grads willing to room with him, he hadn’t wanted to worry about inflicting his night terrors on anyone else. On the up side, it meant he could stay in the boiling hot shower until the bathroom was filled with thick steam and every surface covered in condensation.

Last night he’d dreamt that he wandered up and down the corridors of the conference hotel, now endless and twisting like it was the hotel in The Shining, trying to find his way out. He felt hot breath against his neck and turned to find a giant black stag, almost too large to fit in the corridor with its enormous antlers, following closely behind him. They walked together through the hallways, the stag’s hooves and Will’s bare feet both padding silently on the carpeting.

Will pushed himself out of bed and padded into the bathroom, stripping off his t-shirt and boxers along the way. He sighed, and moved the shower knob to the right before stepping in. Shampooing, conditioning, and washing were all accomplished quickly in the frigid water with the help of the hotel’s free set of toiletries. He shaved his face with the complimentary razor, combed his hair while it was wet and could still be partially managed, brushed his teeth, then dutifully swallowed his handful of pills dry with an ease born of years of practice.

As he looped his tie around his neck Will thought back to the ridiculous paisley one Dr Lecter had been wearing last night. The plaid of the three piece suit, the tie… it all should have looked ridiculous instead of distinguished. But instead he’d exuded a calmness that spoke of control, of the artfully constructed order of a Zen garden or a Roman mosaic. But thinking that polished veneer was all there was to him was like seeing low tide and thinking the water never got any deeper.

Will looked in the mirror to realise he’d somehow tied his tie in a thick Windsor knot.

Once he’d finished getting ready (and retied his tie into its usual, slightly crooked knot-- the other one looked ridiculous on him) it was almost twenty minutes to eight. He could either make it to his panel on time or run outside for coffee, since the hotel, in a choice that spoke of either deliberate cruelty or just painful indifference, didn’t start their morning coffee and tea service until ten.

Will heaved his complimentary conference tote onto his arm and headed down to his panel.

It was in one of the smallish rooms, which would, he supposed, be slightly less embarrassing if no one came. It wouldn’t be the first panel he’d been on with more people presenting than were in the audience.

Surprisingly, there were people already there, one of whom he recognised as Chilton from the day before (in the front row), and another who strode towards the front of the room in a plaid, three piece suit, carrying a white paper bag and a lidded coffee cup.

“It occurred to me after our discussion last night that you might not have found time to secure breakfast before your talk this morning,” Hannibal said, offering him the bag and coffee. “Without knowing your preferences, I felt an Americano and a pain au chocolat would be unlikely to offend.”

Will opened the bag and brought it up to his face, inhaling the scent of fresh pastry and chocolate. “Oh god, marry me.”

He almost missed the startled look on Hannibal’s face, but the man recovered quickly. “My dear boy, I would have to ask your advisor for your hand first,” he said, smiling as though one of them had just said something clever.

Will tried to glare at him over the lid of the delicious, because of course it was delicious, coffee he was currently inhaling, but it was halfhearted at best. Now Hannibal just looked smug, the smug handsome bastard.

“I will leave you to it, then,” Hannibal said with a smile, turning and retaking his place among the audience, a location that was several rows back from Chilton’s placement front-and-center.

Luckily Will’s talk was the last of the panel, which gave him time to sip his coffee and as surreptitiously as possible pull chunks of melted chocolate and flaky pastry out of the paper bag and chew them while staring with what he hoped was an intelligent, thoughtful expression at the other panelists.

Jack had strongly suggested Will choose not to include images in his Powerpoint, given the subject. Will had made noncommittal noises and then promptly ignored him. This meant he had to spend a few minutes fussing with the A/V to get it to properly display his files. “My talk deals with serial killers. None of the images I am going to show today are graphic in nature, but you may find them disturbing given the context. If you would prefer to skip my talk, please return in fifteen minutes for the start of the panel Q&A.” No one moved. Will wondered idly everyone in the room was actually unbothered by the topic, or if they were just afraid of looking weak in front of their peers.

The talk itself went fine; he knew the topic back to front and the audience even tittered slightly at one of his jokes. The last one.

Then, of course, there was the Q&A. The first few questions were directed at the other panelists, which was fine with him. Usually people weren’t sure exactly what they could or should ask when it came to his research interests. Until, inevitably, came...

“How did you get interested in such a… morbid topic, Mr. Graham?” Chilton asked. He turned slightly, smirk still on his face, as though addressing the rest of the audience rather than Will. “Do you collect such things yourself?”

The subtext, as always, was “what kind of weirdo studies these kinds of weirdos?” Often with a side of “Should the police be investigating you for any unsolved murders in the area?” Will stopped himself from rolling his eyes with the ease of long practice. “My primary research interest is the role of death in American culture. When I was growing up, there was an old graveyard near my house that the neighborhood kids used to play in.” He shrugged. “I got interested in the designs of the tombstones.”

Someone in the back followed up with a question on the spread of the green burial movement, directed at the woman next to him, and Will let himself breathe.

After the panel had ended, and the room began clearing, he was unsurprised to see Hannibal making his way towards him and Chilton making his way towards Hannibal. It felt like watching a car crash in slow motion. “Hannibal,” Chilton chided, stepping into Hannibal’s path, “your dedication to such an… interesting… protege does you credit, but I simply must insist upon stealing you away for lunch, the conference is almost over and we still haven’t had a chance to talk.”

“A tragedy indeed,” Hannibal said gravely, and Will had to quickly turn a laugh into a cough as they both looked over at him. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside, Frederick, I’ll be along in just a moment.”

Chilton, having cornered his quarry, could afford to be magnanimous in victory. “Of course, Hannibal,” he replied, patting him on the shoulder. “I need to return my agent’s call anyway. He’s been begging me to do a lecture tour.” Both Will and Hannibal turned to watch him go.

“I fear duty calls,” Hannibal said.

“Noblesse oblige,” Will agreed.

“If you had no other plans, may I reserve your company for dinner tonight?”

“Only if you let me pick the place this time,” Will said. “And pay for it. Meet me at seven in the main lobby?”

“I shall look forward to it.”

While the two professors had doubtless gone someplace nice for food, Will grabbed something at the nearest fast food place within walking distance. He then spent the rest of his day wandering the conference halls, attending panels, and spending more than he should in the book room.

According to Yelp, the place he was taking Hannibal was a bar with an “excellent selection of ciders on tap” and a “vintage vibe.” From the look on Hannibal’s face as they headed down the stairs, he’d at least succeeded at surprising him.

“A little different from last night,” Will said, with a hint of apology. “But the food’s supposed to be good.”

“Travel should always involve new experiences,” Hannibal replied gallantly.

Over ciders, Will couldn’t help but ask how Hannibal’s lunch with Chilton had gone.

“I expect whatever you imagine to have taken place, you would be correct,” Hannibal replied. “But you’ll forgive me if living through it the first time was more than adequate.”

“Professor Chilton seems to be a man blessed with infinite energy when it comes to his own interests, a mix of pomposity and obsequiousness which has doubtless served him well in his career.”

“You found his question during your panel rude.”

Will stared down at the worn wooden surface of the table as he took his glasses off, wiping at the smudges with the cloth napkin. How did they get so dirty from just sitting on his face? “They… they uh... always ask that,” he admitted. “I was surprised when you didn’t.”

A piece of paisley fabric suddenly appeared in his line of sight. “You lied.”

Will glanced up quickly before accepting the pocket square, the fine weave of the silk making quick work of actually cleaning the lenses. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think it was pertinent to the talk.” Or any of his business, he silently added. He somehow got the feeling Hannibal had heard both comments.

“Would you be willing to share the true story with me, Will?”

Will’s mouth twitched up as he offered the fabric back to its owner. “Is this a quid pro quo, Dr Lecter?” He took a breath, closed his eyes. “When I was growing up…we spent a few years in a small town in Louisiana, you’ve never heard of it… there was a serial killer. Five kids -- four girls, one boy -- went missing. Three of them turned back up. Fishermen found some of the body parts floating in the river in black plastic garbage bags. The police said they knew who it was but never had enough evidence to get a conviction, so no one was ever arrested.”

“And this youthful exposure sparked an interest in death?”

Will appreciated that he said ‘exposure’ rather than ‘trauma,’ as the one therapist he’d made the mistake of telling about it had insisted on doing. “The way people would talk around what had happened, not wanting any of us to freak out, but still scared to let their kids out to play. All euphemisms, first the victims had ‘gone missing’ and then they were ‘gone to God,’ ‘at peace,’ and ‘in a better place.’ The whole town went to the funerals. Two were closed casket, and the third was made up so much she looked more like a wax manikin. The deaths changed the town.”

“The deaths changed you. Shaped you.”

“We all experience death sooner or later. If it hadn’t been those deaths, maybe it would have been something else.”

“Do you believe in fate, Will?”

“I believe who we are shapes what we do,” Will replied.

“But surely we are also constantly changing, shaped by our environment and influences.”

“Chicken and the egg, then, Dr Lecter? Or are we back to nature versus nurture.”

“Had you not made that wrong turn yesterday, we would not be here now sharing a drink,” Hannibal pointed out.

“So was my fate to be lost?”

“Perhaps it was to be found.”

“By you, Dr Lecter?”

“You proposed marriage to me this morning, Will, surely you can call me by my first name.”

“I don’t seem to recall you saying yes.”

“And if I say yes will you call me Hannibal?”

Will looked up, finally meeting Hannibal’s gaze. “If I call you _Hannibal_ ,” he said, drawing out the syllables as he watched the other’s eyes darken, “what else can I get you to say yes to?”

“My dear William,” Hannibal said, leaning forward, “I expect you could get me to say yes to any number of things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you know where I borrowed Will's childhood experience from!
> 
> Next update Tuesday Feb 13th.


	3. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Sunday**

 

Next to him, Hannibal lay sleeping the same way he did everything else; with far more elegance and control than a human being should have been able to manage. Not for him a pile of drool on the pillow or Will’s night sweats, no, the asshole had to look like he was posing for a Roman marble of some nobly dying Gaul.

 

What time was it? The room was still dark, but with the heavy curtains drawn that didn’t mean much. Will slipped slowly out of bed and groped for his clothing, fumbling quietly until his hands felt the smooth plastic of his phone. He cupped his hands to keep the screen’s light from seeping out towards the bed. 

 

4:44 am. He’d actually slept pretty well. For once. Maybe Bev was right and he did need to get laid more often.

 

Then his brain kicked in and shit, shit, shit, Will hadn’t intended to stay this long. The cheapest flight he’d found back to MSP was a morning flight that left Seattle in a few hours; he’d have to sprint to get his belongings from his room and get to SeaTac in time. He tried to find the right balance between haste and silence as he pulled on his clothing, shirt probably on inside out, tie shoved into his jacket pocket. Will stifled a yell when he banged his leg on the corner of-- something. He didn’t even try to put his shoes back on.

 

What was the morning-after-a-one-night-conference-stand etiquette, anyway? He felt weird about waking Hannibal, especially at this early hour, just to tell him he was leaving. This was even assuming Hannibal would want to know, that he wouldn’t be grateful that Will had already left and thoughtfully avoided having to have some kind of awkward morning after conversation.

 

He didn’t want to just leave, though… it felt rude. His time with Hannibal had been the unexpected highlight of the conference.  

 

Was there a pen anywhere? One of those cheap hotel branded ones? What the hell should he even say? "Thanks for the conversation and the orgasm? See you next year? If you happen to randomly be halfway across the country look me up?" Fuck it, there wasn't a pen, there wasn't time, there wasn't... Will dug around in his wallet and pulled out one of his own business cards, made especially for the conference. He leaned it against the base of the lamp on the nightstand, face side up. There. It was something. The ball would be in Hannibal’s court. 

 

Fuck, why was he so bad at these things? And by 'things' he meant 'interactions with other human beings'.

 

Shoes in hand, jacket over his arm, shirt buttoned incorrectly in a way he wouldn't notice until he reached the security line, Will took one last look at the sleeping man before quietly shutting the door.

 

He had a plane to catch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...please don't kill me. This is, after all, Will Graham, Patron Saint of Awkwardness.
> 
> Will Will and Hannibal ever meet again? (Signs point to yes.) Next week: the conclusion!


	4. Epilogue - Several Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how things work out.

**Epilogue (several months later)**

 

“Will! Just the man I was looking for,” Jack called out as Will passed the open door of Jack’s office. “Can I borrow you for a few minutes?” 

 

Even though Will had just finished teaching, was running on a single cup of bad coffee, and had been heading home, he’d make time for his advisor. Hell, if he’d been bleeding out, he’d probably have asked the EMTs to give him a minute or two to find out what it was that Jack wanted. That was just how it worked. He turned on his heel and headed into the room, closing the door partially behind him for privacy. Not that it would help if they ended up arguing, Jack tended to be loud when he disagreed. “Of course, Jack. What’s up?”

 

“Good news. I’ve just heard through the grapevine that a position has just opened up that you’d be perfect for. In fact, a little birdie told me you in particular should be encouraged to apply.”

 

Will stared at him quizzically.

 

“It’s at George Washington University-- filling in for a professor in American Studies. A year as a visiting lecturer, and it would put you in a great position once they begin the candidate search for a tenure-track professor.”

 

“Why do they need someone to fill in?”

 

“There was some sort of personal tragedy,” Jack said, his expression closing off. “Does it matter, Will? This is an excellent opportunity for you.”

 

“Of course I’ll apply Jack.”

 

“Good man,” Jack said, giving him a brief pat on the back. “I’ll email you the details, and of course I’ll be happy to write you a recommendation.”

 

Later, in the privacy of his studio apartment, flanked by his dogs and sitting at the desk he’d picked up on Craigslist, Will opened up his email. As expected, there was one from Jack sitting in his inbox, complete with various links and attachments. 

 

On a whim, he bypassed opening it to type “George Washington University” plus “American Studies” and “professor” into Google. He paused a moment then added “tragedy.” Jack’s reaction meant that there was more to the story than early retirement or some sort of health crisis. 

 

The first result he found was from Tattlecrime.com, and the image appearing on the screen with it had Will pushing his chair away from the desk, disturbing the dog curled near his feet. “Ah, shit, sorry Winston,” he reassured him, fussing over him until they’d both calmed down. “It’s okay, boy. Just startled. Everything’s fine.”

 

He leaned back in to actually read the article.  _ Tattlecrime _ was tawdry and usually incorrect, but they tended to have the greatest amount of detail. 

 

_ Dr Fell had been killed by the Chesapeake Ripper. _

 

He kept reading.  _ Tattlecrime  _ was the only one outright calling it a Ripper kill, the other newspapers were being cagier without official FBI confirmation. It was, though, he could feel it in his bones. He’d been found in a dumpster at GWU behind the campus bookstore, defleshed. When they’d pulled him out they discovered he’d been sliced precisely vertically, over and over, but not all the way through, so his body splayed open to each side, sections barely held together by the muscles in his back. The space where his lungs should have been was filled with crumpled, torn out pages, some of which had scattered around and blown away as the police tried to gather them. The  _ Tattlecrime _ writer had apparently snatched one of them and reported it was a page from Fell’s latest book.

 

Will slammed the laptop shut before he could get pulled into the (grainy, telephoto lens) picture of the cops removing the body.

 

God, a Ripper kill. He was trying to take over from someone who’d been  _ murdered by the Chesapeake Ripper.  _

 

Will started laughing, a snort that quickly grew into the kind of full-bodied belly laugh that leaves tears in your eyes. It was horrible. 

 

It was ridiculous. 

 

Would Dr Fell be mourned by his fellow faculty, or were they were already arguing over who’d get his office space?

 

_...Hannibal _ was faculty at GWU.

 

Will still had the business card, a little worse for wear along the edges and with a hole in the corner where he’d pinned it to the bulletin board near his desk. He didn’t know why he’d kept it, with its delicate font silently judging him every time he noticed it. 

 

He’d thought about contacting Hannibal, but every time he’d reopened the email draft, blank except for the ‘to’ line, he’d been frozen with indecision, until eventually he’d close it again. 

 

_ ~~Dear Dr Lecter--~~ _

 

Hannibal, of course, hadn’t contacted him either. 

 

Which meant he was right and it had probably just been  _ a thing _ , the kind of thing that he’d heard sometimes happens at conferences. Just a passing thing between two consenting adults, both far from their homes.

 

If he got the job at GWU, he’d be working in the same college as Hannibal. Would that be awkward? How was he supposed to act around him? Like they’d never met? Passing acquaintances?

 

Will pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to forestall the headache he could already feel forming behind his eyes.

 

God, what if Hannibal was on the hiring committee? He’d definitely be at the job talk, Hannibal seemed like the type who’d want to inspect any incoming faculty. Will could see him, sitting in the front row during the talk, staring at Will with the same look he’d had over their dinner. Forcing Will to try to hide a completely inappropriate erection.

 

Okay, he could… he could write him. Email Hannibal with condolences on the loss of a colleague. Something short, collegial but professional. Then Will could try to gauge how to act around him by the response. And if Hannibal didn’t respond at all, that would be an answer too.

 

He dashed off something short, a few lines of platitudes pulled from an online guide to writing condolence emails, and made himself press send before he could overthink it.

 

That night, Will dreamed he was in Baltimore, watching the Ripper as he skinned Dr Fell. Will brought his hands up to cover his eyes to block his sight, only to discover his own hands were covered with blood. Shocked, he pulled them away to discover  _ he  _ was now the Ripper, that it was his own hands skillfully dissecting the corpse, packing it with the crumpled papers he had already torn out of the man’s latest execrable scholarship, shoving the final piece, the title page, into the mouth of the corpse, down Fell’s throat…

 

Will woke up panting, the sheets almost translucent with his sweat.

  
  


***

 

_ To: graham_wi@uminn.edu _

_ From: HLecter@gwu.edu _

 

_ Re: With sympathy on the loss of Dr Fell _

 

_ My dear William-- _

 

_ Do you believe in fate? _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for going on this journey with me, for reading and commenting and leaving kudos! I love everyone in this bar.
> 
> If you'd like to read any more of my Hannigram, I have a Dracula/Hannibal fusion with LaReineNoire at http://archiveofourown.org/works/8581804 and I've signed up for this year's Murder Husbands Big Bang.
> 
> And if you'd like to come say hi on Tumblr, I'm @bamfinacuddlyjumper

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance to persons or conferences living or dead is purely coincidental, and no academics were harmed in the making of this fic.
> 
> Special thanks to lareinenoire and aerialiste, I never could have finished this without you.
> 
> Say hi on Tumblr at bamfinacuddlyjumper!


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